


Requiem Æternam

by Kyele



Series: the greatest of these [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Assassination, Kink Meme, Last Rites, M/M, Religious Content, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt, Roman Catholicism, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2178888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme: <i>Someone - or more than one - willingly sacrifices themselves so that others can live. Something along the lines of "save yourself I'll hold them back" or a door that can only be locked from the wrong side that has to be secured. Bonus points for heartbreaking conversation between the one(s) who is/are going to die and the ones who are going to live (or just the ones who will die) when both parties know what will happen but are powerless to change it (eg from either side of a locked gate or something).</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem Æternam

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=386310): _Someone - or more than one - willingly sacrifices themselves so that others can live. Something along the lines of "save yourself I'll hold them back" or a door that can only be locked from the wrong side that has to be secured. Bonus points for heartbreaking conversation between the one(s) who is/are going to die and the ones who are going to live (or just the ones who will die) when both parties know what will happen but are powerless to change it (eg from either side of a locked gate or something)._
> 
> I read that and was immediately struck with the mental image of Richelieu giving a dying Treville Last Rites, in the context of an established relationship (you know, for extra tragedy). This is the result.
> 
> Important disclaimer: I am not Catholic! I did a bunch of research and took my best guess. I’m sure practices have changed since the seventeenth century. Please accept this as a well-intentioned effort. 
> 
> By its nature, this fic deals with the intersection of homosexuality and Catholicism. If you’re worried about how this might affect you, spoiler-y details are in the end notes. The spoiler-free version: God is love, full stop, no exceptions.
> 
> Please read responsibly.

As a youth, Richelieu recalls, Louis XIII had been fascinated by hunting. The young king had loved horses, spears, and dogs. He’d dressed almost exclusively in hunting costumes. He spent whole weeks at various hunting lodges outside the city.

Years later, the king’s fancy has turned from rustic pleasures to those closer to home. He gives balls and dances late into the night. He walks in the gardens. Today he has dragged his favorites, his guards and his first minister out into the city. Louis strolls through the richest streets and marketplaces of Paris and flatters himself a populist.

Richelieu wishes the king would fancy himself a ruler, for a change.

At least the king has deigned to bring a full company of Musketeers instead of the usual half. They wait at a discreet distance, unencumbered by the crowd and ready to react. Standing at their forefront, Treville catches his eye. One corner of his mouth turns up in a private half-smile. It’s the same expression he wears in bed, in the afterglow; satisfied and bemused all at once, like he’s never quite understood how his life has come to this. Richelieu gives Treville a practiced eyebrow-lift in return. A reminder of that moment, half a lifetime ago – at one of the king’s old hunting lodges, in fact – when they’d both turned onto this path together.

For a moment they enjoy each other’s attention. Then another Musketeer – that troublemaker D’Artagnan – leans forward to murmur something in his Captain’s ear, drawing Treville’s focus away.

Richelieu returns to scanning the marketplace. He trusts Treville implicitly with the king’s safety, but another pair of eyes cannot hurt, and there has been unrest in the city lately. Worryingly, Richelieu’s spies can bring him nothing definite. The signs point to a gathering of Hugenots dissatisfied with the handling of their religion in France. This is not itself newsworthy, but some rumors claim this group has roots in La Rochelle, the rebellious, well-funded city.

Out in the square, Louis is greeting an apple-seller. Richelieu conceals a sigh and lets his gaze wander.

A sudden motion catches the corner of his eye. Richelieu spins automatically. It shouldn’t be significant, there is motion aplenty in the crowd, but he was a soldier in his youth and he reacts instinctively to the knowledge that this motion is different. This motion means _danger_.

There is a figure shoving through the crowd. A woman cries out as she is pushed to the ground. The figure comes closer – it is shrouded in a cloak, but the cloak is thrown aside – it is a man, and he is holding a musket.

He is firing the musket. He is firing it at the King.

The report is unnaturally loud in Richelieu’s ears. The man shouts something – “Death to the king!” He is pulled down by a man in the red cloak of Richelieu’s own guards. But all throughout the crowd, previously concealed figures are throwing off their cloaks, revealing more muskets which they fire at the King and his retinue.

Someone else shouting “Protect the King!” It must be Treville. The group of courtiers and guards erupts into sudden motion. The bulk of them run east, towards the palace and safety. Richelieu is tugged into motion. Automatically he, too, begins to move. The king is beside him. The Cardinal takes his arm and pulls, shocking Louis out of a stupor, and urging him to run ahead.

Even as Richelieu pushes the king on, he turns automatically, expecting the familiar sweep of a blue cloak at his side. Treville will take over the protection of the king, freeing Richelieu to slip away and begin to manage these events. It is how they work. It is how they have always worked, since their first struggles against each other ended in a mutual accord. It does not matter whether they are angry at each other or in charity. It’s irrelevant whether their personal relations are being freely indulged or circumscribed by the need for secrecy. It matters not whether Treville has most recently been on his knees for pleasure, or to beg Richelieu to turn aside from his course to satisfy some scruple of the Captain’s. When the king is threatened, when France is threatened, they act as one.

Treville is not beside him.

Involuntarily Richelieu’s steps slow. The king’s do not. Nor do those of his guardians. They sweep on ahead, and in moments they have vanished around a corner, making all haste for the palace and safety. A smaller group of men dart in the other direction, pursuing the assassins. The crowd is scattered. The square is empty, its bustle replaced with sudden stillness.

A figure is slumped against one of the buildings. Not a commoner – those boots belong to the Musketeers. One of the assassins’ shots has found a target.

Richelieu hurries to the figure’s side. He should be doing bigger things – directing the hunt for the assassins, ensuring the King’s safety, shaping the palace’s reaction to this event – but he is compelled, somehow, to fall to his knees in the dirt and pull the body into his arms.

Richelieu thinks he must have known already, even though the face was in shadow, even though there was no distinction of insignia or personal effect to betray identity. Even as Treville slumps against him, Richelieu knows.

Treville struggles against Richelieu’s grasp. “Be still,” the Cardinal snaps, pushing Treville’s limbs away to get at his wound. He curses their abrupt solitude. Richelieu is not a strong man physically; he will need help to get Treville to a doctor, if the Captain cannot support himself. The injury does not appear to be to his limbs, however. It is higher.

Richelieu sees the blood rushing from Treville’s chest – red blood, life’s blood – and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Treville is watching his face. Richelieu knows the moment Treville comes to the same realization Armand has already reached. Treville’s face blanches, and fear steals over his countenance. Distantly, Richelieu thinks that it’s strange. He’s never known Treville, the brave Captain of the King’s Musketeers, to show an instant’s fear.

But given the way Treville still struggles against Richelieu’s grasp, perhaps the fear is not for himself? “The king is safe,” Richelieu says, trying to reassure him. “He is being taken back to the palace. Your musketeers are with them.”

Treville does not calm. His eyes are darting everywhere.

“Others are chasing the assassins,” Richelieu tries. “They will be found. You must be still. You must…” He lets his voice trail off. He wishes to tell Treville comforting lies, but he finds he cannot. The blood flow has not ceased – it has not even slowed. Treville’s breath rattles in his chest.

Richelieu has seen enough battlefields. He knows that no one can help the Captain of the Musketeers now. He will die. Ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. Then Richelieu will be left to shoulder their joint burdens alone, and hold up the pillars of France for whatever years it pleases God to send, while within him his heart crumbles to dust.

Then Richelieu realises why Treville is searching the area.

“No one is here,” Richelieu says. Distantly, he is aware that his voice is steady, despite everything. “They have all gone with the king, or after the assassins. Speak your heart.”

“God won’t touch me,” Treville rasps. “Because you have.”

The words hit Richelieu like a blow, leaving him reeling. Treville believes himself damned? Because of them? Of what they’ve done? Has he no confidence – no faith in himself, of all the good he has done in his life?

New horror grasps him. How long has Treville felt this way? Did he ever love Richelieu, or has Richelieu been deluding himself? The way he speaks is an accusation. As if Richelieu has corrupted him, tempted him – has Treville ever truly wanted him? Or only feared him and his power in France? God forfend, has Richelieu forced the man to his bed? This man for whom he has compromised himself a thousand times over in the great game of State. For whom he has let the enemies of France go free and threats to the Church remain. This man, at whose request he had changed the course of nations? How much of it has been a lie?

“No,” Treville is saying, voice barely above a murmur. It’s not loud enough to penetrate Richelieu’s shock. Treville’s hand, shaking as it grasps at Richelieu’s robes, accomplishes the feat. “Armand, no. It wasn’t – I love you. I’ve loved you more than my soul and the promise of eternal life. It’s just, now that it comes to it…” his hand falls away, and he struggles to draw in breath. Despite this, he manages a breathy laugh. “I’m afraid of Hell.”

Afraid. The nature of Richelieu’s failure shifts, tilts on its axis.

“You will never taste of Hell,” the Cardinal promises.

As a minister to the body, Richelieu is useless. But as a physician to the soul he is a master.

His right hand grasps the cross around his neck. Automatically he brings it to his lips and kisses it reverently. Then he tugs it off, awkward with the one hand, but refusing to leave Treville to lie unsupported on the packed dirt. He touches the cross to Treville’s brow, his lips, his heart. Treville’s own right hand comes up to grasp at it, weakly. His blood smears its golden edges.

With his left arm still cradling Treville’s head and his right holding the cross, being held in turn by Treville, Richelieu has no spare hand to draw the book from the pockets of his vestments. But the Last Rites are among those he knows by heart.

Treville is panting, shallowly, blood flecking his lips with every exhale. The ball must have nicked a lung as well as his heart. Treville _could_ exert himself to speak further, but it would only hasten his demise, and Richelieu has never believed in a cruel god. Only a just one.

Treville looks as if he’s gathering his strength regardless. Richelieu stops him with a quick shake of his head. His earlier statements will serve well enough as confession and contrition.

“Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat,” Richelieu begins. _May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you._

Treville relaxes by inches, sagging against Richelieu as the prayer goes on. He attempts to cross himself when Richelieu reaches _ego te absolvo,_ God’s absolution. Richelieu gathers up Treville’s hand in his own, wrapping Treville’s fingers around his golden cross of office, and helps him make the sign.

“Remissionem peccatorum, augmentum gratiae et praemium vitae aeternae,” the Cardinal promises. The remission of sins, the increase of grace, and the reward of everlasting life. Selfishly, he’s praying for himself as well, praying that God’s promise will prove true for them both and he will see Treville again in the world to come. Even should that not be the case, though, even should Richelieu die unreconciled, his accounts still unbalanced, he will ensure Treville’s place in Heaven.

Now he lays Treville’s hand back down over his chest, leaving the cross behind, and fumbles in his vestments for the holy oil. “Per istam sanctam Unctionem…”

Again he touches Treville’s body. Eyelids, ears, nose. Lips, hands, feet. Loins. Richelieu leaves his hand there – impersonal, the touch of a priest – while he calls down God’s forgiveness for every bodily sin. Richelieu does not believe that God views the sin of carnal delectation any differently when it occurs between men as when a man and woman lie together unmarried, or when a woman breaks her marital vows to lie with another man. The same absolution that frees the dalliers of Louis’ court will free Treville. It is only men who draw a distinction. A useful distinction, at times, as when Richelieu used men’s revulsion against the Comtesse de Larroque. But a meaningless one in God’s eyes.

In this, Richelieu had allowed himself to forget that Treville is but a man.

The Cardinal looks down at his petitioner. Treville will not be a man much longer. Soon he will pass from this world and go to stand before the Lord. He is barely breathing, and Richelieu does not even think of the Viaticum; Treville is beyond any nourishment now, even the spiritual kind. Instead the Cardinal lets his arms come around Treville. One last time he holds his lover close. Pressing the cross against Treville’s chest, his lips brushing Treville’s brow, Richelieu makes one final prayer.

“Ego facultate mihi ab Apostolic Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo et benedico te.” A plenary indulgence. For everything Treville has done in the King’s service. In France’s service.

In Richelieu’s service. For all the grace he gave Richelieu by his mere presence, by his love. For all the sinners for whom Treville interceded when Richelieu was moved to wrath. Treville should have been the holy man. Treville should have been the one left to guard France.

Instead, in Richelieu’s arms, Treville breathes his last.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti. Amen.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Treville realizes he’s dying and panics about going to hell as the result of his slashy relationship with Richelieu. Richelieu disagrees (expressing very period-atypical opinions about homosexuality) and administers Last Rites regardless.


End file.
